Not Your Ordinary Housewife

28





‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Nikki?’

‘Yeah . . .’ The phone had woken me and I was drowsy, but I recognised the voice instantly.

‘It’s Deirdre here in Brisbane. Sorry to call so early in the morning . . . Paul’s passed away.’ Her voice was flat, almost matter of fact.

‘Oh no . . . no . . .’ The deep sense of loss hit me instantly.

‘I found him this morning. He was sleeping in the basement and I went down there . . .’

‘I’m so sorry, Deirdre . . .’ I was finding it impossible to adequately express my sympathy to her without sounding trite.

‘As soon as I felt him, I knew . . . I knew he was dead. He was so cold. He must have died during the night,’ she said, softly.

‘How incredibly tragic.’ I was paralysed with sadness, although no tears were forthcoming.

‘Yeah, he was such a tortured soul. At least he’s at peace now.’

She told me he had just come out of detox, but he’d relapsed.

‘Was it suicide?’ I asked anxiously.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said calmly. ‘He took a cocktail of wine, anti-depressants and God knows what else . . . kind of an accidental overdose . . . but there was no note.’ That seemed right—he had once admitted to me he’d never have the guts to kill himself.

‘Listen, I’ve got the police and the coroner here,’ Deirdre said nervously. ‘I have to go.’

I hung up the phone and tried to collect my thoughts as Deirdre’s words replayed in my mind. I was in shock, but this was not the time to grieve; I needed to be composed for the children’s sake. Telling them of their father’s death would be the single hardest thing I had ever done.

I went to wake Shoshanna. Now twenty-four, she’d had almost no contact with Paul in the eight years since he’d left. Still, her reaction was shock as we hugged each other, and then her tears flowed as her body spasmed in distress.

Ya’el was at her boyfriend’s, but she had switched off her phone. I rang him and left a message.

Ben was stoic; of the three of them, he was perhaps closest to Paul.

Over breakfast, Shoshanna and I talked. Neither of us felt much like eating. We would need to organise flights to Brisbane and accommodation.

‘This is affecting me more than I thought it would. I have a lot of mixed feelings about your father.’

‘Me, too,’ said Shoshanna through a veil of tears. Her body was limp as we embraced; we held each other in a grip of support.

‘People always assumed that because I hadn’t seen him in years, I didn’t care—but it wasn’t true at all. I’d always loved him.’ In fact, it was Paul who’d rejected her: he hadn’t even called for her eighteenth or twenty-first birthdays. But there was no point dwelling on that now. She was thankful he’d called her several days earlier. He must have just come out of detox. She was excited because they’d arranged to meet during his planned visit to Melbourne in a few weeks. ‘He’d mellowed—maybe he knew the end was near.’


‘Just try to remember the positives,’ I coaxed.

Shoshanna explained how she had thought of him as disabled: he was sick and, as soon as she’d realised that, there was no point being annoyed with him. Shoshanna had a mature attitude to life, always having a sensibility beyond her years. She reminded me that the reason she’d studied accountancy was because she never wanted to be in a position where she couldn’t understand finances. Money had never been Paul’s forte; indeed, life wasn’t his forte.

We talked for hours. I recounted how, after Saskia died, his repressed memory obsession had surfaced again. Maybe his uncle did abuse Paul; by the time Klaas died, he’d apparently abused several children. But the family, even Omoe, had swept everything under the proverbial carpet.

We discussed how Paul’s distress had been compounded by the fact that Saskia had left him nothing in her will. He had gone to court in Holland to get his rightful share, but her estate had only debts by then. Most of the assets were in Prague; however, Czech law didn’t recognise them as being half hers, because Vlad had brought them into their marriage. Paul had been told to wait until the Czech Republic joined the European union   so he could enforce the Dutch court order, but by then he was broke. ‘No wonder he was bitter—he didn’t get so much as a photo or memento from her,’ I said. ‘So sad.’

‘He had heaps of loss in his life,’ Shoshanna observed quietly.

It occurred to me that Paul, like Trudie, probably had Diogenes Syndrome—the squalid hoarding disorder that could manifest itself in self-neglect. I recalled how his stench had made me retch. ‘Remember the dozens and dozens of empty wine casks after he left?’ I queried. ‘He just never threw anything out.’

Shoshanna wiped away a tear. ‘Even that beautiful BMW he’d cherished was so jam-packed with empty casks, the boot wouldn’t shut properly . . . and he’d drive around with them.’

‘You know, I mightn’t have turned up at Trudie’s funeral if it wasn’t for the fact that Paul did the same thing with Brian.’ I’d wanted to talk to him about that, but by then our relationship was acrimonious. He’d always been so supportive of anything to do with my birth parents, I understood how he’d felt. ‘It’s the lack of acknowledgement and hypocrisy that hurts.’

‘It’s a pity you couldn’t have stayed friends after you separated,’ Shoshanna speculated.

‘I tried, but he was constantly abusive.’ I sighed. ‘Yet there were times when I desperately wanted to share moments with him—about you children, or just things . . . Like when I watched The Big Lebowski and knew he’d love it too.’ Occasionally, we’d speak, usually to communicate the death of someone we’d known.

‘It seems like the few friends Dad had mostly died—like Lloyd—and those who didn’t, he neglected,’ Shoshanna noted.

I’d often wondered why he’d never stayed in touch with Richard Brautigan. They had formed this intense friendship . . . and then nothing. I theorised that maybe they were similar and recognised that in each other. Certainly both were immensely talented, but self-destructive. I’d read that, tragically, Richard had shot himself at his ranch; when his body was finally discovered, it was badly decomposed.

One of the last times Paul and I spoke civilly was just after 9/11. Shoshanna knew he’d rung me then; he’d been crying, and he said how now was a time to reflect upon loved ones. He was already with Deirdre, but kept repeating to me, ‘Whatever happens, I’ll always love you. Just remember that. Deirdre and I just find comfort in each other. You will always be the only woman I ever loved.’



Shoshanna sorted our flights and we investigated funeral websites: the children wanted input into the service, and I thought it appropriate to offer to pay half.

I tracked down Ya’el; she took the news very badly and said she’d come home as soon as she could. She looked pale and teary as I hugged her.

I gathered the children, saying that, before I called Deirdre to discuss the funeral, I needed to know their wishes.

‘I just want some of his ashes,’ said Shoshanna. She intended to get a beautiful urn and have them in her room. Ben thought it was a brilliant idea.

‘Me, too,’ said Ya’el. ‘I think it’s what he would have wanted.’ I knew Paul would have been touched to think that his children each had a piece of him always with them; I thought it was a lovely idea. ‘I’d even like some ashes too. He was such a big part of my life—seventeen years of marriage. And maybe Deirdre wants a share.’ I was determined to support whatever the children wanted.

We all concurred: it should be a simple service—and one with a celebrant who wasn’t going to mention God.

‘Yeah, he would have hated that,’ said Ya’el.

It dawned on me that possibly the only thing Paul and Dory had had in common was an aversion to God.



Unfortunately what followed was an unseemly squabble with Deirdre.

Before I’d phoned her, she had decided on her own arrangements. She was going to have the body cremated in Brisbane and the ashes couriered down to Melbourne. She had a friend in the funeral business and he was arranging everything. They were going to have a service by the beach at Mount Martha and scatter the ashes at sea.

‘But we’re coming up to Brisbane,’ I protested. ‘I’m about to book four flights . . .’

‘There’s no need to come,’ she said tersely.

‘But we want to.’ I was puzzled by her attitude.

‘Well, there’s not going to be a service here, only the cremation.’

‘But we . . . the kids . . . want to have a proper funeral and view the body.’ I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. ‘We don’t want to just scatter the ashes: the kids want to treasure them. They need closure. Besides,’ I continued, ‘the children were hoping to see where their father died; it might help with their grieving.’ Neither of the girls had been to Deirdre’s house. But she would have none of that.

‘This is a private sanctuary now,’ she declared.

‘I wish you’d consulted them about the funeral,’ I said.

‘Why would I do that?’ she retorted. ‘I know what he wanted. The ashes are going to be scattered. Anyway, they were all estranged from Paul.’

‘That’s not true. They were all mending their relationships . . . even Shoshanna. And, besides, he was still their father. If you could see them . . . they’ve been crying constantly—they’re extremely distressed.’

‘And he always hated you!’ Her voice was raised in anger; she was becoming abusive. ‘He hated you with a passion.’

‘Yeah, but this is about the kids, not me and Paul.’

‘I’m organising it and this is how it’s gonna be,’ Deirdre shouted, and hung up.

I was shaking from shock as the line went dead.

Shoshanna looked contemplative. ‘But who’s in charge of the body?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know, I guess she is,’ I supposed. ‘She’s certainly taken control—she’s acting like she’s next of kin.’

‘Well, you’ve still got his will. So, you’re the executor, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah, I guess so . . . but it was written in 1992.’

But Shoshanna thought that didn’t matter—unless he’d done another one. She reminded me that she’d studied estate planning at uni.


My brain wasn’t functioning properly; I’d completely forgotten to ask. ‘But Deirdre didn’t mention a will,’ I said.

‘That’s probably because she doesn’t have one,’ surmised Shoshanna pragmatically. We recalled what Paul was like: how he didn’t ‘do’ paperwork and how he never filled in forms. We all knew he’d never have changed his will to make Deirdre the beneficiary.

Shoshanna spoke with conviction. ‘Even though Dad might have said he hated you—which I don’t believe for a moment—he knew that what little he had would come to us kids eventually. So I reckon you’re the executor and you control the remains.’

That sounded perfect, because I didn’t want his ashes scattered over the sea. Deirdre had spent time around Mount Martha, but we doubted it was somewhere that had been significant to Paul.

‘If anything, it should be Holland or Canada . . . even Warrandyte,’ I suggested. ‘He’d loved it here—the wildlife and the view. Remember how excited he’d get whenever there was a koala in the garden? Or how he delighted in feeding the kookaburras on the balcony? And when they brought their baby fledglings—he was ecstatic.’ Shoshanna nodded tearily, her eyes puffy and red.

‘He’d even drawn a cartoon about it. He seemed truly happy then,’ I recalled.



As soon as Shoshanna had recovered her composure, she called Deirdre to ask if she had Paul’s will. Her response was insulting: ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a relative.’ This was Paul’s daughter asking, not some long-lost relation coming to claim an inheritance; besides, we all knew Paul had no assets.

A quick conversation with my kind neighbour—a Supreme Court barrister—confirmed my suspicions: since Paul never divorced me and the will wasn’t superseded, I was the executor and had ‘the right to dispose of the deceased’.

‘We can have whatever type of funeral you kids want,’ I told the children gleefully. We were all overjoyed. I couldn’t believe we were fighting over Paul’s remains. ‘I’m gonna call the police and find out where the body is.’

‘And I’ll book flights,’ said Shoshanna.

We’d been told there’d be an autopsy, and I called the mortuary to inform them that my undertaker would be collecting the body— under no circumstances should it be released to Deirdre’s.

The phone was ringing incessantly with friends who’d heard of Paul’s death. I was desperately trying to contact Paul’s half-brothers, but had no phone numbers for them. I also called one of my aunts. She’d only met Paul once, but wanted to attend the funeral as a gesture of support to me. I was touched by this—other than Deirdre, we would know no-one.



In the middle of all this activity, I received a call from the oncology department of the Mercy Hospital. It had been several weeks since my massive cyst operation. Now I was told my pathology report revealed a rare and aggressive high-grade ovarian cancer, which had spread to my peritoneum. I was scheduled to begin chemotherapy immediately.

My reaction was shock; the children’s was disbelief. Right now, however, I could only focus on Paul’s funeral and put my poor prognosis out of my mind.

Somehow, I would have to make sense of his wasted life and write his eulogy. I’d long thought of him as a flawed genius: he had been so gifted, but he’d frittered his talent away. He had so much potential and was so many things: writer, artist, film-maker, entrepreneur, actor, salesman . . . he even had that brief stint as a real estate agent. If he’d been born into a nurturing family, he could have been something spectacular. Instead, he became a pornographer.



We arrived early at the Mount Gravatt Cemetery; I wanted ample time to view Paul’s body. The undertaker had warned that we might be shocked by the discolouration and bloating but he had done what he could, without overdoing the make-up.

I was struck by how much Paul had aged in the six years since I’d seen him—what was left of his hair was now mostly grey. He looked serene as he lay there in his white satin shroud. His face was asymmetrical from the blood that had pooled internally on the side where he’d lain.

Ya’el was first to caress his head, tears streaming down her face. The others followed. I too plucked up the courage to stroke his icy hands, clasped neatly on his chest. Whatever our differences had been—and there were many—I felt no anger or bitterness, just affection and sadness for him and his lost life. After all, we had loved each other once.

There was only a handful of mourners, who sat with Deirdre on her side of the chapel. Some were fellow market stallholders, but most were apparently friends of hers who barely knew Paul. Bravely, each of the children recited a poem, Ya’el reading her own moving composition titled ‘Dad’s Quirks’. It felt odd to be sharing this intimate moment with strangers, but then Paul had never had many friends.

The celebrant read my eulogy. To finish, I used the same Shakespearean rhyming couplet I’d previously quoted at the funerals for Egon, Dory and Trudie. Of all of them, it was truest of Paul:

Golden lads and girls all must

As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

After the funeral, Deirdre handed over to us a box containing Paul’s possessions. Among the old and tatty clothes were only two things of sentimental value: his portfolio of drawings, and his pool cue. The former, mainly from his youth, still encapsulated the life force and creativity that was Paul.

The undertaker delivered the ashes the following morning to the serviced apartment we had taken in Brisbane. He included a cutting of Paul’s hair—tied with a tiny bow—for Ya’el, who’d requested it. We had bought a duffel bag in which to carry Paul’s possessions. That virtually the sum total of his life fitted into a carry-on luggage bag was a tragedy in itself. We knew there were other possessions, but Deirdre showed no inclination to give them to us. No doubt the estate would be bankrupt.

Paul’s ashes sat in a yellow supermarket bag on the kitchen table. He had been a big man, and the ashes were heavy. Naturally, we had assumed Deirdre would ask for a portion, but she hadn’t and I did not make the offer. The children regained their composure as we spent hours talking fondly of their father’s idiosyncrasies. I knew that the grieving process would be a long one for all of us.



The airport was crowded with holiday makers as we made our way to the security gates. We were jostled in line as we waited to go through the X-ray machine.

Shoshanna was concerned. ‘It’s not going to be a problem, is it . . . taking Dad through airport security?’

‘I don’t think so.’

We became separated from Ya’el and Ben in the crowd.

‘Who’s got your father?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Shoshanna. ‘Where’s Ben?’

I found Ben, who at well over six foot tall is always easy to locate. ‘Have you got Dad?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said Ben, holding aloft the yellow supermarket bag.

‘Okay, you need to put him through the X-ray machine.’

Ben lifted the bag onto the conveyor belt.

‘G’day,’ said the airport security official. ‘So, what’s in there?’

‘Dad,’ said Ben firmly.

‘It’s their father’s ashes,’ I clarified. ‘I know it’s a bit unusual to be taking human remains on board a plane, but . . .’ I produced the letter that the undertaker had given me. I waited tentatively as he read it.


‘Okay, no worries.’ He smiled benignly. ‘Have a safe trip.’

As I walked down the concourse, I thought to myself, ‘Jeez, that’s the end of an era.’

But could I honestly say I wouldn’t have missed it for the world? I simply don’t know.